


Forbidden

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:44:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The most forbidden love of all, Mycroft can’t resist it and Sherlock doesn’t give a damn about social conventions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forbidden

**Author's Note:**

> I've spent the last year swearing that I would never write Mycroft/Sherlock, so here it is!
> 
> Mentions of underage (incestuous) sexual activity and the prologue takes place during their youth, but Sherlock’s nineteen and a university student for the main part of the story.

Mycroft curled up instinctively into a tight ball with his hands clasped protectively over his head.  The blows rained down on him and his father’s boot struck him hard in the back.

“Gerald, for heaven’s sake…” That was his mother’s voice.

Sherlock was sobbing. “Don’t, please don’t!” He must have broken away from their mother because suddenly he was on his knees beside Mycroft, clinging to him in terror.

Their father grabbed Sherlock by the scuff of the neck and pulled him away. “Get him out of here,” he told his wife angrily. “I’ll deal with him later.”

“No more, Gerald.” Mycroft heard her say through a haze of pain. “The boy’s had enough.”

Sherlock was still crying. He sounded distraught.  Mycroft wanted to tell him that it would be all right, but there was blood in his mouth and anything he said to comfort his brother would only make things worse.

The hall door slammed shut, but he could still hear Sherlock’s muffled sobs.

“Get up,” his father ordered.

Mycroft crawled slowly and painfully to his feet. He was afraid that he was going to vomit all over the highly polished floor.

His father grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up at him.  Then he shoved him brutally back against the wall. “God, you make me sick!  What you were doing was disgusting and depraved, and whatever your mother may say you’re old enough to know better.  If I ever, ever catch you doing anything like that again I’ll make you wish that you had never been born. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Mycroft whispered.

*

Sherlock was masturbating, gnawing at his lower lip and pulling rapidly on his cock.  Mycroft knew that he ought to leave him to it, but he stayed where he was and pretended to read ‘The Times’.  He tried not to think about the games they used to play when they were children.

“Can’t you do that in your bedroom?” he said.

“No.” Sherlock sounded very breathless. “It’s too…too cold up there…oh god…”  

Mycroft fought the urge to turn around in his armchair and take another look. He was twenty-six and Sherlock was nineteen, they were too old for games. 

Sherlock groaned.  He was usually fairly quiet until he was on the very edge of orgasm.  Mycroft stared blindly at his newspaper and waited.  Sherlock had been going at it with gusto and he couldn’t possibly last much longer at that pace. He strained his ears for every tiny sigh and murmur.  Bare feet padded across the black and white chessboard floor. Sherlock knelt on the Indian rug in front of the fire. His erection jutted out proudly between his thighs.

“Oh god, I was so close.” Sherlock stretched his spine. “I’ve been teasing myself all day.”

“You shouldn’t do this,” Mycroft managed to say.

Sherlock turned his head to look at him. “What exactly shouldn’t I do?”

_You shouldn’t torment yourself. You shouldn’t torment me, sitting there naked and aroused, making me want things that we both know are an abomination._

“I think that I was damned the day you were born,” said Mycroft.

Sherlock laughed. He turned around and buried his face in Mycroft’s lap.  “I missed you,” he whispered.

Mycroft wanted to retort that he hadn’t missed him at all, but the lie died on his lips. He stroked Sherlock’s dark hair and watched his cock twitch in appreciation. “Do you want to sit on my knee like you used to do?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, please.” Sherlock scrambled up and curled his long limbs into Mycroft’s arms.  He sighed contentedly.  “This is nice.”

Sherlock undid the two top buttons on Mycroft’s shirt and pressed his lips to his collar bone. The gentle swipe Sherlock’s tongue over his skin made Mycroft gasp. He cupped Sherlock’s chin and turned his head so that they could kiss.  Sweet, forbbiden, open mouthed kisses that delighted them both.

Sherlock shifted restlessly and pulled at Mycroft’s belt. “I want to hold your cock.”

If he hadn’t been hard already that single statement would have enough to produce an aching erection. Mycroft groaned when Sherlock’s fingers curled around him.  His next groan was of frustration because Sherlock simply held him, not rubbing or squeezing his erection.

“Brat.” He nuzzled Sherlock’s temple.

Sherlock giggled and flexed his fingers just once. “I’m saving it for later.” He arched his hips. “Touch me, but don’t let it happen, not even if I beg you.”

Mycroft obliged. He remembered all the little tricks and touches Sherlock adored even though it had been a nearly a year since they had made love and he soon had him shaking and gasping.

“I want to come,” Sherlock moaned as if Mycroft didn’t know, as he couldn’t see and feel how excited he was. “Please…”

“Not yet, dearest.”  Mycroft kissed Sherlock’s forehead and let go of his cock.

“Bastard.” Sherlock pumped Mycroft’s cock hard in retaliation. “See how you like it when I stop.”

Mycroft’s hips jerked. “Oh, heavens, if you don’t slow down soon I won’t be of any use to you at all.” 

He was half disappointed and half relieved Sherlock did stop. Orgasm would bring a return to normality; orgasm might just make him wonder what the hell he was doing.  Mycroft didn’t want to think. He just wanted to drown in this illicit love.

“What…” he asked between kisses. “What do you want anyway?”

“Fuck me.”

Mycroft froze. That was way beyond anything they had ever done before. 

Sherlock drew back a little, so that he could look down into his face. “Don’t you want to?”

“Yes.” Mycroft was an atheist, but if had believed in divine retribution the flames of hell would be licking at his feet. “But the first time isn’t easy. It’ll probably hurt no matter how careful I am.” 

“I know that, idiot, and I don’t care. I’ve been fantasizing about it all weekend.”  Sherlock kissed him. “I want you, Mycroft.”

They gave themselves five minutes to calm down and for Mycroft to shrug out of his clothes. They moved the heavy leather chesterfield until it stood opposite the huge marble fireplace.  Sherlock had hidden a tube of lubricant in the desk drawer. He pressed it into Mycroft’s hand with a shy smile. “I trust you.”

That was why they were here because Sherlock trusted him. Mycroft enfolded him in his arms. “You should learn to trust someone else, a boyfriend or a girlfriend, whatever you want.”

“I only want you.”

There was part of Mycroft that was saddened by his answer and another part that was wickedly glad. “I don’t think that I want to share you with anyone else, dearest, but we can’t go on forever was we are.”

“Why not? It isn’t even illegal.”

Only because no one had thought to prohibit something that was so rare and so perverse.

So rare and so precious.

Mycroft kissed him gently and then led Sherlock over to the sofa.  Mycroft lay on his side against the back of the chesterfield. He drew Sherlock down beside him, so that his narrow back was pressed against his chest and Sherlock’s stiff, needy cock was only touching the warm air that drifted over from the fire. It took a long time to coax the opening between Sherlock’s buttocks to relax and yield, but finally he whimpered and pressed back onto Mycroft’s gel coated fingers.

“Now. I’m ready.” Sherlock rocked back against his hand.

Mycroft withdrew his fingers and hooked his leg over Sherlock’s thigh.  He kissed the nape of his neck and pushed the tip of his erection into his anus. The slide in was easier than he had expected it to be. Sherlock’s body opened to him and then enclosed him like a second skin, hot and perfect.

“I love you,” Mycroft said.

This is what there father had tried to prevent all those years ago when he had thrashed him to within an inch of his life. A savage beating for being caught with his hand inside Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. What would the old man have done if he had caught them like this, committing the ultimate sin, the one the church had for centuries deemed to be worse than murder?

“Father’s dead, He can’t hurt us,” said Sherlock. “And I love you too, more than anything in the world.”

Mycroft didn’t ask how Sherlock knew that his thoughts had turned to their late, unlamented father. He didn’t want to talk about him. He didn’t want to think about him. He didn’t want to think about anything. Mycroft rotated his hips and pressed in until he was buried to the hilt. After a few seconds he pulled back and pushed in again, forcing himself to go slowly. He did it again, a little faster.

Sherlock shuddered.

“Are you all right?” Mycroft gasped.

“Oh, yes, it’s bliss.” Sherlock rocked against him. “Do it again. Fuck me.”

Mycroft did. His hips moved of their own accord, a rapid credence of passion and it was bliss, an earthly fervent joy that made him shake and moan.

Sherlock sobbed and clasped his inflamed cock with both hands.

“No!” Mycroft grabbed his wrists and after a brief tussle he managed to pull his hands away. 

“Let me come! I can’t stand it. I’m so close…please…” Sherlock tried to thrust his hips, but Mycroft held him fast.

“Soon, dearest, soon.” Mycroft thrust into him. His own cock was throbbing. And coming. Coming in endless fiery spasms that made him scream Sherlock’s name.

He murmured it as he lay trembling in the aftermath and Sherlock twisted round to embrace him. Mycroft kissed his brow and his eyelids. Sherlock fastened his mouth onto his, kissing him desperately. His rigid erection rubbed against Mycroft’s thigh.

“Please, Mycroft, please…” Sherlock moaned.

“Hush, dearest, hush.”  Mycroft propped himself on one elbow and bent over Sherlock to taste the pink bud of his left nipple. The wild beat of his heart drummed beneath Mycroft’s cheek.  When he touched Sherlock’s cock his pelvis jerked upwards.

“Oh fuck, please!”

“Please what?” Mycroft closed his hand around Sherlock’s erection.

“Make me come,” Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft smiled and kissed his lips tenderly. He stroked him gently. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, god, yes, please.” Sherlock brushed the back of his hand over Mycroft’s cheek. “Make me come.”

Mycroft masturbated him quickly and skilfully. Sherlock moaned. His eyes closed and he thrust his hips driving the tip of his cock into Mycroft’s palm. The contact made him cry out.  

Mycroft chuckled. “Is that good, dearest?”

“You know damn well…oh god…” Sherlock pulled his knees up and opened his thighs. His head tossed from side to side. “I can’t…can’t stop! Oh, fuck, I’m too close!”

There was an edge of raw panic in Sherlock's voice. No matter how much he craved an orgasm there was always that moment when the inevitable lost of control freaked him out.

“Just let it happen.” Mycroft kissed Sherlock’s open mouth and moved his hand even faster.

“Oh god, fuck…I can’t… it’s happening.” Sherlock’s pulsating cock jumped wildly. “I’m coming!”

It was Sherlock’s rapturous expression that captivated Mycroft. Sherlock writhed, spurting hot semen, but Mycroft kept his gaze fixed on his face, watching intently as he shuddered through orgasm and aftershocks.

Mycroft wanted to weep, but he gathered Sherlock to him and cradled his trembling brother in his arms.  He wanted to tell him that this was wrong, that they must never succumb to this dark temptation again and he wanted to swear that he would never leave him.  

They clung together.

“Don’t go,” Sherlock said.

“I have to go.” Mycroft bit back his tears. “I’m flying to New York in the morning.”

“And if I ask you why or who it is that you work for you won’t tell me, will you?”

“I can’t tell you.”  They'd had this conversation before and it nearly always ended in tears or traumas. Mycroft prayed that Sherlock wouldn’t  pursue it tonight.

Sherlock interlaced his fingers with his.  “Why did you let it happen?” he sounded weary rather than angry. “I asked not to let me come no matter how much I begged for it.”

“You needed it, dearest.” Mycroft kissed him tenderly.

Sherlock burrowed down and hid his face in the curve of Mycroft’s shoulder. “I wanted to wait until the morning, until just before you left, so that it was the very last thing…something to remember when you’re gone.”

Mycroft swallowed the lump in his throat. “Won’t you remember tonight?”

“Always, but it isn’t the same.”

“We can do something else in the morning, some special, before I have to leave.” Mycroft stroked Sherlock’s hair. “I might even be home before you go back to university in a couple of weeks.”

“I don’t want to go back. I hate it. They hate me and why do I need a stupid degree anyway? It’s just a piece of paper.” Sherlock raised his head and looked down at Mycroft with tear damp eyes. “Why can’t I live with you in London? “ He licked Mycroft’s right nipple. “No one will think twice about two brothers sharing a flat, like Caesar’s wife we will be above suspicion.”

“I wish that were true,” Mycroft said sadly. 

The people he worked for would know that their relationship was incestuous. They existed beyond the public faces of government and espionage, in the secret shadow world where everything was known about anyone of any significance.  Mycroft was significant and rapidly becoming more so, but his position was not yet unassailable.  He had enemies who would not hesitate to use his love for Sherlock to destroy them both.

He tightened his grip on Sherlock. “If my life were different then it might be so, but it isn’t, dearest.” Mycroft laid his finger across Sherlock’s lips. “Please, don’t argue.” He cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands and rested his forehead against his. “Go back to university and I’ll visit you whenever I can, but it just isn’t possible for us to live together.”

Sherlock stared at him. On another night and in a different mood he would have flown into a fury and demanded answers that Mycroft dare not provide. Now he closed the tiny distance between them and wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft simply held him. There was nothing else he could do.

*

After three weeks of silence Sherlock stopped going to lectures. After five he half convinced himself that Mycroft was dead, but he still spent every day in an agony of anticipation, waiting for the letter or the phone call that never came.

Six weeks. Sherlock stood on the bridge in the torrential rain and watched the flood waters race through the stone arches. He wondered how quickly they would carry a corpse out into the icy North Sea. His lips twisted into a bitter smile. If he plunged into that raging river he would never know the answer to his question and more importantly he would never know what had become of Mycroft.

He had to get through this. He had to endure.

It wasn’t difficult to find his solace and he paid the handsome Irishman’s price without a murmur.  Sherlock refused to dwell on how angry and heartsick Mycroft would be if he found out what he had done in his absence. 

It was as sharp as fire and as cold as ice.

It was the first time Sherlock Holmes ever used cocaine.

 

 

 


End file.
